


She will end it, she will.

by ijustlookatpictures



Category: Fresh Meat (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Lightly Mentioned Smut, Who doesn't love these two?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27093289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustlookatpictures/pseuds/ijustlookatpictures
Summary: So she shoves the plaster over his mouth before he has a chance to utter another word or before a single thought crosses her mind and she doesn’t care if he suffocates or if he chokes and swallows his tongue.Hell, it would be an easier outcome for her because that way she will never ever have to admit the fact that her favourite thing to do is to spend time with Jonathon Pembersley.
Relationships: Josie Jones/J.P. Pembersley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	She will end it, she will.

**Author's Note:**

> I've bloody adored these two for years and this just came out of nowhere when I was rewatching.

She can’t bear to hear him speak, anymore. She’ll go insane if she does - truly, utterly insane. 

Because if she thinks about it, not even that hard or for a long time, but literally for a single fraction of a second, she will have to come to terms with the fact that she enjoys talking to him more than anyone else in her entire life.

More than Oregon or Vod, more than her college friends on their Whatsapp group, or any of the girls on her course. More than her cousin Laura who had been like a sister to her, more than her actual bloody sister. More than, dare she even go as far to admit, her best friend from home Emily, even. Certainly far more than she ever enjoyed talking to Kingsley.

Because when she speaks, he listens to her like she matters and believe it or not, when he talks she can't help but hang on his every word. He's different when they're together. He’s kind and funny and witty and interesting and supportive and clever and compassionate and so fucking sexy and... _Jesus, no_ …!

So she shoves the plaster over his mouth before he has a chance to utter another word or before a fresh thought can cross her mind and she doesn’t care if he suffocates or if he chokes and swallows his tongue. Hell, it would be an easier outcome for her because that way she will never ever have to admit the fact that her favourite thing to do is to spend time with Jonathon Pembersley.

He never used to be like this.

He used to be shallow and awkward, conceited and facetious and they would run out of things to say within seconds, their conversations turning strained and awkward or just downright offensive within moments of them being left alone.

In fact, the only thing she used to enjoy about spending time with him was when he would pin her down against the mattress, lock his hands over her belly to keep her still and press his face between her legs as he went to town on her nether regions until she was crying out so desperately that she couldn’t get air into her lungs fast enough to breathe.

Or when he would flip her onto her front and do that circling thing with his hips that had her falling apart at the seams within seconds. Or when he would do that little fluttering open-mouthed kiss just above her clavicle that would leave her as putty in his hands. Or… or… or any other of the myriad of wonderful sex things at which he has always been so adept.

If she were honest, the boy can claw orgasms out of her, unlike anyone she has ever met. Hell, he does things to her that she can’t even manage to do herself. And that has always been just fine.

But now? Now, he does all of those things in addition to the brand new things that he's so excellent at. 

Like being the only one to turn up to watch a stupid show that shouldn’t mean anything but does.

Like slinging an arm over the back of the settee and settling warmly at her side as he squirts tequila into her mouth with the water pistol from the table.

Like hurrying around the kitchen frantically to collect their drinks and snacks as she fast forwards the adverts before launching himself dramatically against the sofa with ciders in his hands and the multipack of Monster Munch clutched between his teeth as she caterwauls with laughter at his antics.

Like biting the cap of her Rekorderlig off with his teeth because he forgot the bottle opener and he's so determined he's right about Larry Lamb character being the killer that he won't miss a second in case he loses track of the plot.

Like always seeming to be there whenever she needs someone, especially when it seems like no one else is.

She looks at him differently that night. He’s her friend. He’s always been her friend and she loves him for that.

But it’s more than just that now. That becomes vividly clear from the moment he suddenly tumbles against her mouth, his tongue prying gently at her lips in a way that suddenly renders her utterly and completely weak at the knees in a way it never has done before. 

The sex is different too. Because even though they're drunk she's certainly not as drunk as she's making out and she has the suspicion that he isn't either, so if this isn't a mortal fuck then what the hell is it?

There's no more awkward dirty talk this time, either - just a jumble of low affections and affirmations mumbled gently into one another's ears because he doesn't need any help maintaining a hard-on anymore and she doesn't feel the need to fill the silences. There's no awkward double bagging of anything because she never came off the pill after Kingsley and she didn't realise how much better sex feels without a condom until right then - especially with the noises he's making and the way he's gasping against her and holding onto her desperately.

It becomes yet more complicated afterwards. Because apparently he doesn’t just roll over and fall asleep straight after sex any more, either. 

She learns pretty quickly it's not just a fluke, because it doesn't happen the first time they do it, or the second, or the third, or any of the times after that.

She's used to basking in the mortification of her own regret as he snores obnoxiously into his pillow beside her as he takes up three-quarters of the bed. She's no stranger to the self-hatred she feels as she shuffles back into her clothes either when he has made several, not so subtle attempts, to usher her out of his room because he doesn't want to be woken early the next morning, doesn't want to share his bed or simply doesn't want to be around her anymore.

No, instead, he now he leans down to kiss her skin as they’re basking in the afterglow of their intimacy or worse yet, he pulls her against him as he trails fingers along the length of her arm in that tickly stroke that she would never admit to enjoying as much as she does, but she has a sneaky suspicion he knows already from the way he keeps doing it.

She hates herself for enjoying those moments between them almost as much as the sex itself.

It's even confusing when he reaches for his discarded t-shirt or his boxers and takes the soft fabric gently to her messy skin before his own with such care that it knocks her sidewise. Kingsley never did that; nor did Dave.

Worse yet, when it’s entirely over he’ll get in her face and kiss her slowly, asking if she wants anything, a drink or a snack or if she wants him to run and flick the immersion on so that she can have a hot shower before she falls asleep.

What she struggles with the most is that she has no qualms in answering him honestly.

‘Yes please, I’m really thirsty.’ ‘Do you still have those Maoams?’ ‘Would you not mind? I’m in at nine tomorrow and I won’t have time to dry my hair in the morning.’

With Kingsley, such acts always felt like an obligation, a fee that would need rewarding. He would climb from bed with a sigh or promise to do it in ‘just a minute’ as he reached for his phone before completely forgetting whatever she’d asked for in the first place.

JP never sighs. JP never makes her wait and JP most certainly never forgets.

Instead, he drags on his dressing gown and heads straight for the kitchen, not just bringing back a tepid glass of cloudy water like Kingsley would, but carrying a hot cup of tea with an extra half teaspoon of sugar than she asks for because he knows she likes it sweet and just a splash of milk to colour it because he also knows she likes it stronger than most would think to make it.

He’ll drop half a packet of whatever he has secreted in the back of his food cupboard or in the secret snack drawer of his desk onto the duvet for good measure, before climbing back in with her to share their spoils. He always flicks the hot water on on his way back up, too, _just in case._

One thing she is in absolutely no denial about is the fact he makes the best brews and he has the best snacks and those are two things about him that she never wants to change.

But the one thing she simply cannot get her head around, however much she tries, is that he has all of a sudden grown unrecognisably thoughtful and that completely blows her mind. Because thoughtful and Jonathon Pembersley are not two phrases that go together.

Then again, it suits him, she supposes.

He has this incorrigible way of drawing information from her that she didn’t know she had to divulge and he has this infuriating way of remembering details about her life or events in her week that he has absolutely no way of knowing. But mostly, he talks to her like he genuinely gives a shit.

Something Dave never did. Nor did Kingsley; not really.

‘Are your results on Blackboard from your practical yet? You’re not still worried, are you?’ ‘Was the rat lady not coming in today? You forgot your lab coat on the table this morning and I thought you weren’t allowed in without it?’ ‘My friend Digby wants to change his degree to Accounting. He wants to find his wife on the Apprentice and he thinks this is the first step. What does your sister think of her Accounting course? Is that guy still lurking outside her halls?’ ‘What happened with your Nana's scan at the hospital? Was it the Japanese doctor she doesn't like, again?’

And she answers and it develops.

She returns the conversation too, finds she's helpless to. Because she's become embroiled in his life and she cares enough to know. As a mate, that is.

‘How did your meal go with your Mum and Leon? Did he annoy you as much as last time?’ ‘God, those tosser mates of yours were at the pub tonight, I don’t get why you like them. They’re arseholes and they treat you like shit.’ ‘Your brother's a bloody pleb, you don’t disappoint your Dad.’ ‘As my Landlord can I report that I need the gloryhole in my fucking bedroom covering because if I have to have one more night listening to my ex wanking like he's in the bed next to me, I'm going to go insane!’

They talk.

And they talk.

And they talk.

Terrifyingly, she finds more often than not, they talk about things that matter.

She learns how awful he found boarding school and some of the stories he tells make her cry. He laughs at her when he notices and wipes his thumb against the tear tracks down her nose, calling her a 'silly bint' whilst assuring her that he was 'a perfectly capable young man who was ready to take on the world.' In reality, he was only ten.

She realises he’s far stronger than they give him credit for and it suddenly makes sense why he hides his sweets and writes his name on his clothes and is always to desperately trying to impress people.

He tells her that he doesn’t cry at all anymore. It used to make his Daddy very angry and he would get smacked for it, 'big boys don't blubber like little girls.' He had his own ways of coping with it until he got smacked even harder when his Daddy found him chewing on the bannister instead of crying. After that, he learnt how to simply daydream his feelings away, and he wasn't smacked for that.

She hugs him at that, genuinely. Because despite his money and despite his bravado, he's had a seemingly fucking awful, lonely life. She also decides that even though he's dead and it's disrespectful, that she thinks his Dad is a fucking arsehole.

She learns nicer things about him too, like his favourite colour is blue and his favourite food is fish finger sandwiches. That he has always wanted a cat - he bloody loves cats - and that his favourite place is the beach and that he never thinks you outgrow building sandcastles.

Or that he simply doesn’t understand people who don’t get sausages from the chippy, because they're just 'so much more superior in every conceivable way.' As is Burger King over McDonald's, but he concedes that a McFlurry, does indeed, knock a BK Fusion into a cocked hat.

He tells her his secrets, too.

Like he misses his Dad and he feels abandoned by his Mum. He had a lot of issues he wished he had the chance to talk to them about before he had died but the time has been and gone, now. That makes him infuriated and devastated, in equal measures.

He hates answering the phone to his brother, he makes him feel bullied and belittled but Tomothy has always been his Mother's favourite and that's just the way it's always been. The scar down his thigh isn't from where he needed surgery after breaking his leg playing rugby, it's from the accident when Daddy crashed the car after having one too many ports at his Uncle Jeremy's Christmas shindig.

He had to stay in hospital for holidays, which certainly was not ideal because they were supposed to be going to the Cotswolds to see his grandparents. His still parents and brother went, regardless, and they had a lovely time, by all accounts. He didn't mind being left so much because Mummy always just used to argue with the nurses and as his Father always used to tell him - a commitment is a commitment.

He just wished that they had left him more things because he was alone for days on end after that and he remembers how he kept spilling soup down the same pair of Pokemon pyjamas and he had no clean ones. Eventually, a nurse called Susan took his clothes home to wash and she was very mean to him about it afterwards. 

Though the incident in no way 'scarred him', to this day, though, hospitals still petrify him.

Of all the secrets he tells her, it's that one that he begs her not to repeat.

She shares her own secrets with him, too. Secrets she has never told anyone. Not even Emily.

She tells him how although Dave was nice, there were times when he wasn't nice. In fact, most of the time he wasn't nice at all. He left her on the side of a country lane one bonfire night and she had to walk all the way home and when she got in her Mum drove her back to apologise for the inconvenience. Which was all well and good but if she didn't want to have sex in a layby that was absolutely her prerogative.

It was just kind of assumed that she had to put up and shut up because had kind of just expected them to stay together since they got together in school. She was fully willing to go along with it because she thought that was just what all grown-up relationships were like - miserable.

She knows her Dad wants a divorce and would leave tomorrow if he could afford it. She doesn't think he would come back, not that she blames him. Holidays are so awful because of the atmosphere at home that she dreads them, especially bloody Christmas.

Her sister is only her half-sister - her parents don’t think her and her brother know, but they do and it explains the issues she has with their Dad. Her Mum is complicated, too – she still sees Dave from time to time and she’ll bring him up daily whenever she’s home. They’ve never quite seen eye to eye and she’s still so disappointed in her for failing dentistry and calling off her engagement. In fact, she hasn't been allowed to tell half of her family that she dropped out of her first degree, at all. They’ll be expecting her to graduate this summer so she’s dreading going home because it’s going to be so bloody awkward.

She doesn’t know where she’s going in her future, but she’s certainly not going home. 

He holds her hand and plays with her fingers as they talk and she detests him even more for that.

But what cripples her? What she genuinely finds so intolerably awful?

It’s the way he looks at her now and the way, she’s ashamed to admit, that she looks back at him. It’s the fact he’ll cuddle her as she falls asleep or the way he fucks her languidly from behind, spooning her as he holds onto her tightly and whispers lovely things into her ear as he kisses her shoulder. Like he’s her fucking boyfriend. Which he isn't. Because it's not like that. Not at all.

It’s the fact she’s helpless for it and she aches for it more and more.

It’s the way he looks at her like she’s hung the bloody moon when she goes down on him for the first time or the way that he leaves her cups of tea on the bedside table if he has an early start or the fact he leaves her little notes or drawings and tucks her in and kisses her goodbye.

It’s the way she pretends to be asleep when he does it because she loves nothing more than snuggling down in the sheets that smell like him, in boxers and a t-shirt that belong to him as he potters around his bedroom getting ready for the day and she’s frightened that he won’t do it the same if he knows she’s awake.

It’s the fact she’s terrified he will revert back to old JP come the morning and the knowledge that she would miss him so dreadfully if he did.

It's the fact that this time, she doesn't ever regret it the next day.

Not really.

But it's the strange look that Vod gives her from behind the bar as she leans against his shoulder and listens intently to the worries falling from his mouth at the prospect of joining the next generation of YUPPIES when she suddenly realises that this isn't just confined to their bedrooms anymore. At that moment, it comes crashing down on her like a tonne of bricks. Exactly what _this_ is.

Because this isn’t sex anymore, this hasn’t been sex from the start.

Their relationship, if you could even call it that, stopped being about sex the night he turned her down when she was sad and lonely and wanted to hurt Kingsley. Turned her down not out of solidarity to his friend, but for the sole reason that he didn't want to be her rebound shag and he didn't want her to regret it in the morning.

Fuck.

She shoves herself away from him after that and purposely puts two bar stools between them, nursing the Peach Schnapps that had been waiting for her on the sticky wooden counter when she returned from saying hi to some friends from her course. The Peach Schnapps that JP had ordered for her, and actually paid for, after overhearing that she didn't want her beer.

She tries to ignore the way he stares at her, wearing his feelings so visibly that it's almost comical. He's so drunk that he doesn't even attempt to hide the hurt adorning his features, nor rectify the way his head cocks to one side as he tries to assess exactly what he had done wrong for her to move away from him so quickly. Especially when he was trying to talk to her about his feelings.

Because he’s been trying more lately. Trying to be more thoughtful and careful with his words because he knows that he offends her sometimes. Well, less sometimes, more, all the time.

Like when he told her 'only fat people do Slimming World' or when he regarded her as 'insufferably poor' upon learning that she buys Aldi's Essential frozen peas instead of Bird's Eye or the time he adopted her a sheep for Secret Santa and named it 'Shagger' or when they fell out and he saw fit to tell the entire house that she had an 'oddly cold vagina'. 

But she knows he never means to offend her, he's just a dickhead. In fact, he assures her of the sentiment so earnestly that she can’t help but believe him.

The real kicker of whatever 'this' is, though, is the fact that they’re never drunk anymore. Not really.

Not at all, sometimes.

No, a glass of wine or a cider certainly doesn’t cause an individual to lower their inhibitions enough for them to do what they do and it certainly doesn’t explain why they do it again in the morning.

In addition, there’s simply no rhyme nor reason for why he scribbles cartoons for her and leaves them at her side when he leaves first in a morning and there's even less of an explanation for why she keeps them all.

She finds it inexplicable the way she rubs his back gently to roll him over in the middle of the night when his snoring wakes her and simply doesn't have an answer for why they curl up and watch tv shows together in his bed instead of downstairs, where the others are watching the exact same programme.

Nor can she explain why she feels so much safer as she snuggles up to him after waking from her nightmare about the Woman in Black after they watched the film before bedtime… or why she enjoys it so much when he wraps his arm around her tummy and pulls her towards him, mumbling warmly into her ear in that sleepy, tired voice she yearns for as he kisses her shoulder… or why she learns cola sweets are his favourite and why she picks goes as far as to pick some up on occasion as she does her food shop… or why she knows that his favourite Disney film is the Lion King and that he knows every word to a _Circle of Life_ , including the bits that are in Zulu, and that she realises that when he goes quiet after Mufasa dies that he’s gone to his little daydream space and…

FUCK!

It needs to end.

She knows that.

She wants it to.

She can’t spend more time with him.

She tells herself so desperately she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t need to. She assures him it’s only about sex. It’s only because they’re drunk. She tries to assure herself at the same time.

But the truth is, she can't.

Because she knows she’s certainly not drunk and she knows JP isn’t either.

Then again, if she plasters his mouth shut that means she doesn't have to listen to him speak anymore and if she puts her mind to it she's positive she can limit the only sounds coming out of her mouth to be sexual in nature.

So that way it _will_ just be sex and what they're doing is fine. Because it's acceptable to spend time with him if it's only a shag. It's a perfectly normal thing to do at uni, to shag one of your best friends over and over and over at the expense of going out and meeting someone... isn't it?

But the plaster cannot stop the way that she’s helpless to squeal with laughter against his neck as he flips them both over and buries his face into her collarbone... or the fact she scratches firmly at the hair at the nape of his neck just to draw the low groan that he elicits in response does more for her than anything she ever did with Kingsley... or the way she breathes him in deeply and he smells like his aftershave and his deodorant and he's warm and he's safe and he's him and an accumulation of all that leaves her feeling happier and more relaxed than she can remember being in a long time.

It doesn’t stop the way he won’t stop looking at her as she climbs on top of him or the way he sits up and draws her against him as she lowers herself down or the way he holds onto her for dear life as she begins to move.

It doesn’t stop the fact that he flips them over halfway through, yanking the plaster away from his lips as he pins her to the mattress and begins to kiss along her collarbone towards her neck just how she likes it and it doesn’t stop him muttering the commanding, breathy _shut up_ into her skin as she objects to the removal of his bindings and shamefully, she must admit, she does.

She hates him for how weak she is around him. How pathetic, how simpering, how needy.

This is JP, she barely _likes_ JP, let alone _likes him._

No, that was wrong, she doesn’t like him at all.

That was why she called Helpline; to end it.

Except she didn't end it. In fact, that was the night it got a whole lot worse. Because that was the night that she fell into bed with him in an entirely different way. At least, he fell into bed with her.

She was already half asleep when she hears the front door slam beneath her, instantly recognising the jingle of his keys and his unsteady footfall against the stairs.

She's ready to argue the second there's a creak outside her doorway, but her resolve falls away as soon as he's stumbling into her bedroom and through the darkness, she can make out how happy he is to see her. Then again, that doesn't mean anything because he is absolutely, utterly mortal. So drunk in fact, that he seems to barely be able to walk. 

'I'm not having sex with you!' She objects uncertainly into the darkness, just so that she can tell herself she tried.

He grumbles, struggling with his buckle as he kicks off his shoes before his jeans and belt come tumbling to the floor with an unceremonious _thunk._

He's struggling with his polo shirt as he replies, voice slurred. 

_'I don't want to have sex.'_ He mimics into the striped fabric and suddenly he's fumbling his way around the edge of her bed, overwhelming her with the smell of his Diesel Only the Brave aftershave mixed with beer and cigarettes.

'You're a fucking arsehole.' She rebukes without any real malice as he crawls towards her and a few moments pass until she's getting ready to chastise him properly, not just making fun of her but doing it incorrectly, when she realises that he's already fast asleep.

It all feels very anti-climatic because she hasn't even had a proper opportunity to feel like she objected and he's breathing so heavily that she knows he's out for the night so there's no chance of sex even being considered.

Then again, she's unsure why she's surprised because he's always out in seconds whenever he lies his head on her chest and she plays with his hair. Like she's doing right now, her fingers continuing to run against his dark strands as he lies with his cheek pressed against her ribs, his legs curled up beneath him as he takes up most of the bed. 

It's then that she suddenly realises that he wasn't making fun of her at all and falling asleep with her, like this, was all he ever wanted in the first place. She's not entirely sure why that makes her cry nor is she sure why she lets him stay like that until morning.

Jobbo was invented after that.

Because Jobbo was strong enough to spurn JP’s advances. Jobbo had to be.

If Jobbo says no Jobbo means it. There's no snuggling and no laughing and no secret sharing for her, she's far too aloof for things like that. She's too cool.

Yet as she sends the single soggy text of _I’m in the shower_ and leaves the bathroom door unlocked should a visitor wish to join her, she’s glad that Jobbo was left at the commune and it’s Josie that JP finds beneath the stream of water and not her menacing alter ego.

He gazes at her, his face split into a grin as he gives her _that look_.

‘Are you still Jobbo?’ He asks tentatively, pausing against the shower curtain as she stands against the shabby tiles, grateful she's had the opportunity to shave all over before his arrival.

‘No.’ She answers and can’t help but smile herself at the way he suddenly begins to strip off at frantic speed in his haste to join her.

‘Good.’ He states and she shuffles to one side to make space for him beneath the showerhead. He takes her face in his hands earnestly and stares into her eyes with such severity for half a second she's terrified he's about to say something that they'll both regret afterwards. She's delighted when the sentiment all that falls out of his mouth instead is. ‘Jobbo was a fucking bitch!’

Then he's kissing her and it knocks the wind out of her sails how much she's missed him, even though it's only been a couple of days.

She’ll end it.

She will.

This will be the last time, she’s sure of it.

But that doesn’t stop her from crying out his name and holding onto him like he's her lifeline as they both finish and it doesn't stop her from washing his hair with her special shampoo as they clean themselves up afterwards and it doesn’t stop her tiptoeing up the stairs with him, still half damp, as they suppress peals of laugher, attempting to creep past Kingsley who is strumming some god-awful song in broken Italian on his guitar in his half ajar bedroom. 

Nor does it stop her crying helplessly into his duvet as she listens to the stories of his day in London and the thought of him hiding from his brother in a Greasy Spoon in Tower Bridge and it doesn't stop the twitching in the bottom of her stomach as he looks positively euphoric at the notion of her having clocked Vod in the face and lived to tell the tale.

Nor does it stop her from ordering a late-night Dominoes with him for an overdue tea because neither of them have eaten since lunch time.

Nor does it stop her picking the peppers off of a slice of her Texas BBQ before she gives it to him to try because she knows that peppers make him gag and it certainly doesn’t stop her from sneaking the cookies that he had ordered for himself that were especially ‘not for sharing’ and it doesn’t stop her from laughing hysterically in his face as she lets him pin her to the bed in sheer frustration when he finds half of them gone afterwards.

It won’t stop her from falling between his legs in acquiescence minutes later, either. Or stop her from sticking another plaster over his mouth, for the sole purpose, she announces, to keep him from whining, when, in actuality, it's because she is aware of the fact she's kissing him far too much for this to be a _Friends-with-Benefits_ fuck.

It doesn't stop her from letting him shag four orgasms out of her either or stop her from changing his contact picture on her phone to a _'t_ _russed-up,_ _befuddled looking gimp'_ as he so declares himself afterwards.

Nothing can stop any of it anymore. Because she can't help but accept the fact that this is what is happening. She's not drunk, neither is he. She's not sad, or angry, or lonely or vulnerable.

She's here because she wants to be. She's here because, right now, she couldn't think of anything she would rather do less than stop it.

So she takes the plaster off of his mouth and they lie together and talk for a while until he goes to make her a cup of tea. He's gone just long enough so that she can actually brush and dry her hair because apparently, she sleeps here often enough that she keeps her hairdryer and a brush in his room. By the time he comes back up she's back in bed so he climbs in with her and this time, he's made himself a brew too so they drink them together and talk some more. To her chagrin, she has to admit that it isn't even remotely awkward or uncomfortable.

He goes on to do a surprisingly spot-on impression of faux-Italian Kingsley and she laughs so hard that she starts snorting. She watches as he moves across his room and grabs some clean clothes from his washing pile, accepting his offer of a t-shirt and boxers, even though she brought her own pyjamas up here with her. They watch meme videos on his phone and she lies with her head on his chest.

It's right there that she starts to fall asleep, lulled by his familiar breathing and the way his fingers tickle gently along the skin of her arm. She pretends to be sound asleep when he presses his lips against her forehead gently, softly bading her goodnight as he wraps an arm around her middle and leans onto his bedside table for the ashtray he brings out whenever she's fallen asleep.

The last thing she remembers is the familiarly comforting smell of his Marlboro cigarettes, the rise and fall of his breathing and the suppressed sound of his chuckle as he watches whatever godawful Jackass skit on his phone.

But she could end it right now if she wanted to.

She will end it.

She will.

She fully intends to.

Tomorrow.

She’ll end it tomorrow.

Because this means nothing really. If she thinks about it. Which she doesn't. Because she doesn't have to.

Because she knows, already.

That she's going to end it tomorrow.

But she has a feeling that it will be a while before that particular tomorrow comes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I would love to know what you think.


End file.
